The House on the Cliff

by Andrew Sclater

This is the house they cleaned before 
they died. The roof’s now in, the door’s
swung off. They cleaned the house with broom
and mop. They tidied every room.
Their windows gleamed across the field.
Kindness to the house is what healed
their pain. Or so it’s said. The Lord
looked out above their bed. Mice gnawed
one hole in the brown skirting board.
Just one. The west wind clawed and clawed
at gutter, lum and fencing post— 
they lost a slate or two at most.
The mice have had her wedding dress.
Which is a sort of tidiness.